


You Don't Look a Day over Perfect

by teaandjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme: Sherlock knows John has bags under his eyes that never go away and strands of grey in his hair; his mind tells him these things mean John is aging. But all he sees in John is youth and love and life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Look a Day over Perfect

Sherlock knows John is old. Not Mycroft old, or Lestrade old, but older than him. The evidence is strewn across the flat—in the tube of IcyHot cream that John rubs on his back, making the apartment smell like menthol for days, the orthopedic inserts John places in his shoes when he knows he has a long day of work ahead of him, the fish oil tablets he takes with his meals for joint health, and most of all, in the grey hairs John meticulously pulls out every week and throws into the bathroom bin.

Sherlock started collecting those strands. He has seventy-five locks of John's hair stored in a velvet pouch that he keeps in his bedside table. He pulls them out sometimes when John is away on business or visiting his sister. He holds the strands tightly together and runs their ends across his cheeks; it's like fine silk, John's hair, and Sherlock wishes there was enough of it to carry the scent of his flatmate's shampoo.

When John is away for a long time, enough time for the scent of John's aftershave to no longer be discernible on his chair's headrest, Sherlock takes the hair and places the roots under a microscope, taking comfort in the fact that John's DNA is safely locked in those follicles, and that if he had to (which he hoped he never would), Sherlock could grow himself another John.

What bothers Sherlock is that over half of the strands are newly grey, the white shock of hair appearing closer to the follicle while the rest was still brown. Which meant that a good deal of John's greys had sprouted during his stay at 221b, or rather, they had sprouted _because_ of his stay at 221b. Because of Sherlock.

Sherlock knows he's bad for John. He knows it's highly probable that his presence in John's life will cut down the army doctor's lifespan by about ten years, and that's without factoring in occupational hazards. 

But Sherlock also knows that no one can make John laugh like Sherlock can--not even Lestrade who, Sherlock was irked to note, was number two on John's speed dial. Lestrade could never make John laugh to the point where John had to grab his knees from fear of falling over. He couldn't make John cry from mirth, chest heaving as if his lungs didn't have enough air in them.

They are on a case in an alley behind a noodle restaurant, when Lestrade, in his typical, tactless fashion, brings up John’s descent towards the later years of his life. Even from thirty feet away where he’s crouched over a victim’s body, Sherlock can see John’s brow furrow in confusion. 

Lestrade tugs at a lock of John’s hair and says, "You'll be like me soon," loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

Sherlock feels his blood boil, and he marches straight over to the two, pulls Lestrade's hand out of John's hair and drags John away. He knows grey hair isn't contagious, but he doesn't want John to go all grey. Not yet. 

They trudge through the wet streets with Sherlock keeping his mouth tightly closed and John repeatedly asking, “What the hell was that about?”

It’s days later, when John has just come out of the shower and is combing his hair over the restroom sink that Sherlock says, "I'm making you old.”

Sherlock can’t keep the guilt out of his voice and he imagines that’s why John looks up sharply. He watches John place the comb on the sink and tighten the towel around his waist. Sherlock can actually count the number of muscles it takes for John to rein in the look of impatience that threatens to spill over his face.

“Alright,” says John. “I’ll bite. What do you mean?”

“You’re getting old because of me,” says Sherlock.

John waves his hand in front of him, encouraging Sherlock to elaborate.

“You can barely make it over the shortest of fences without help and you’ve started incorporating more fiber in your diet. Your hair has started to grey. Drastically. And since you’ve only just turned forty-two and didn’t have a single strand of grey hair when you first came to live at our flat, it stands to reason that I’m the cause of your rapid aging.”

Sherlock expects John to deny it. Or to explain to Sherlock that aging is a part of life. That it’s something everyone goes through. John does neither.

"Do you think I'm old?" asks John, without a trace of insecurity. He sounds genuinely curious, like a teacher asking his students a question he already knows the answer to.

Sherlock looks John straight in the eye. What he finds there is the same gleam that struck him dumb, just for a second, on their first night together when John stood in front of him, sure-footed, and said, “Because you’re an idiot.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth tug upwards and that’s apparently enough of an answer for John who smiles back. A wave of contentment washes over Sherlock and he almost feels good enough to call up Lestrade and offer to take on a cold case or two.

“Besides, I’m not the only one going grey,” says John offhandedly as he resumes combing his hair. 

“Ah, you've noticed too,” says Sherlock. “Poor Mycroft, Finally looses all of that weight, only to have time’s cruel hand strike.”

“Mycroft’s not the one I’m talking about,” says John, eying the back of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock immediately grips his hair and leans towards the restroom mirror. “Where,” he says, his voice panic-ridden as he cards through thick patches of his dark curls. 

John chuckles beside him, his laugh infused with smug satisfaction. 

Joking, then, thinks Sherlock, secretly relieved.

“Come on, you vain git,” says John fondly. He pulls at Sherlock’s robe, prompting the detective to follow. “I’ll let you pull out some more of my hair for your creepy collection.”

Sherlock smirks over John’s head, delighted at the prospect of fresh samples.


End file.
